


The Stars' Light (Let Me See You)

by orphan_account



Category: DCU, Deathstroke the Terminator (Comics), Nightwing (Comics)
Genre: (That should be a tag), Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Amputation, Canonical Rape/Non-con, Dick Grayson Needs a Hug, F/M, Getting Together, Getting to Know Each Other, Graphic Description of wound, How Do I Tag, I'm Bad At Summaries, Injury Recovery, M/M, Major Character Injury, Past Rape/Non-con, Slade Wilson Being an Asshole, Slade Wilson needs a hug, Tags May Change, Unreliable Narrator, Vomiting, everyone is a background character except Slade and Dick, everyone is bad at feelings
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-05
Updated: 2020-12-30
Packaged: 2021-03-03 19:41:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,342
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24561004
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: After an accident that leaves Slade missing an arm and recovering in Gotham, Dick decides that he wants to help and stays with Slade. All Slade wants is to figure out how to deal with his injury; Dick wants them to finally embrace their status as soulmates.As they get closer, maybe they can both get what they want.
Relationships: Batfamily Members & Dick Grayson, Dick Grayson & Slade Wilson, Dick Grayson/Slade Wilson, Selina Kyle/Bruce Wayne (background)
Comments: 15
Kudos: 118





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> fuck summaries man, i don't even know. uh, anyway, i keep seeing Dick getting hurt (and i love those because i love dick...grayson. and seeing him hurt) but i really love Slade, so obviously that means i have to be mean to him since there are so few fics about him getting hurt and then getting the love he deserves. 
> 
> i have so many other WIPs that I should be working on and publishing, instead i wrote this at 3 in the a.m., woke up today, decided 'fuck it, im not doing anything else', and uhhh, here i am. 
> 
> the /// indicates a scene change, while the ... indicates time has passed

Dick wakes up screaming; excruciating pain everywhere, his head throbbing, and the feeling of flames catching on his skin. 

His vision is spotted and blurred. His head is plugged with cotton. The deafening ringing in his ears and all-consuming agony drowns at the immediate sounds of Bruce and Alfred and Damian rushing into his room. He cries out, jerking away from the hand that tries to soothe him. 

Immediately he knows that this isn’t his pain, but even second hand it feels like torture. It feels like he’s dying. Like his  _ soulmate _ is dying. A sob tears out of his throat at the thought of his soulmate being taken away from him before they’d even tried to be more. 

A phantom pressure falls onto his chest, and he chokes out a name. Whispers of a fire far away wrap around him, and darkness creeps over his vision as the only thought in his head is of Slade. 

Slade who is his soulmate; Slade who might be dying; Slade who never really gave them a chance. 

_ Slade. Slade. Slade.  _ He chokes out the name over and over again, hoping for his message to shine through; hoping that they'll understand. It comes out mangled, and desperate, but it’s the only thing he can say. 

Faintly, he hears Alfred tell Bruce to find out where Slade is, then Bruce telling Damian to help; a reluctant response, not wanting to leave but wanting to help in any way. Knowing they’re on the case pulls a sob of relief from him. 

He wants to go too because Slade is  _ important _ \- has always been important, soulmates or not - and he needs to find Slade; to go get him and bring him home. But he can barely move or speak, groaning and whimpering as he is. Their footsteps are light as they leave, and he flinches at the feel of Alfred’s hand. Murmurs of words he cannot understand curl around him, and, as he slowly drifts from wakefulness, he hopes - more than he’s ever hoped for anything before - that Slade will be safe. 

///

Slade fades in and out, never really sleeping but never really waking. 

He can’t remember where he is or what’s happened. The overused bed he’s laying on is lumpy and ripped; it’s springs dig into his skin. His back hurts.  _ Fuck _ , everything hurts. He can feel his body healing all of his damaged - but still salvageable - organs, and  _ snap _ of bones resetting incorrectly; the tingle and discomfort makes him want to crawl out of his regenerating skin. 

The pain fogs his mind, but he can feel it: there’s something on him - covering his body, his face, his mouth, his nose, and he can’t breath.  _ He can’t breath _ . Even in his groggy desperation, it’s a difficult task to lift his hand, seconds stretch to hours in his mind, heavy as it is. The simple movement of trying to push off whatever the hell is covering him makes pain shoot right through his whole body, but it’s enough to unobstruct his vision and breathing - even if the uncomfortable weight of what seems to be a thin, stained sheet covers the rest.

His eye rolls around to take everything in. Every bed and sheet is ripped and soiled; a dirt floor made more red than brown with all the bodies brought in; the smell of piss and vomit and blood laced into the stale air; rotting bodies of people who didn’t have super healing, all of them dying a slow and painful death.

It’s an all too familiar smell and sight. He gags, and realizes: he’s in a medical tent - if the flimsy material surrounding the area could be called a tent.

Faint memories of such a similar sight would make him shudder if he could move, so instead he tries to focus on getting out of wherever he is. When he gathers enough strength to try to sit up, his arm gives out beneath him and the other - he feels bile rise in the back of his throat. 

Nothingness replaces the spot where it  _ was _ . 

The wound bleeds sluggishly through the throwaway rags they’d taped onto him, and it’s clearly infected. He rips them off, barely noticing the sting of the tape ripping open and creating more wounds; then heaves over the bed at the sight he's met with. 

During the war, and in his line of work, he’s seen plenty of gore. He’s seen infected wounds that people would never heal from, used other soldiers’ rotting bodies as cover, slept in the blood of ally and enemy alike. But the opening is stitched horribly. The dripping blood coming faster after agitating it by ripping away the only thing staunching it. In the few spots around the wound where the blood dried, it’s a crackly black layer instead of red. If he looks close enough, he can see the remaining part of the bone - jagged and snapped. Worse still, there is infection creeping up his skin, like whatever he had lost his hand to was trying to take more than it already had. 

He groans and thuds onto his back. Someone finally notices him; words he doesn’t understand are aimed at him and then at others. People in scrubs and gloves and masks flit toward him. He wonders if they know who they’ve got in their little set-up in Wherever The Fuck, Someplace. 

A blue medical glove comes into view. He catches it, feels the wrist’s bones snapping under his hand; his mouth is set in a snarl. He knows what he wants to say, but it slurs out incomprehensible. A mishmash of sounds trying to mimic a question.

He feels the needle piece his skin, and he goes under again.

. . .

When he comes to, his body is on fire. There’s someone screaming, though it sounds more like a wounded animal. It takes a moment to recognize it as his own howls of agony, too long since he’s last felt enough pain to scream. 

People surround him and hold him down, yelling in a language he can’t place, but he feels like he’s floating. Everything hurts and he smells smoke, there’s a metallic taste in his mouth. He hopes that he’ll close his eyes and won’t wake up again. 

Then he blacks out and his whole body spasms.

. . .

Just his luck, he thinks. His one wish is ignored by whatever cruel entity decides his fate, and he wakes up in the ‘best’ possible way: with his eye assaulted by the sun shining through the flimsy tent material, and ringing in his ears so loud it sounded like a civil defense siren. 

He groans, but his throat is dry and cuts off the sound so it’s barely even a pitiful whimper. His lips turn down, and he can feel how cracked they are as they split in places and blood bubbles up. When the fog of drug induced sleep clears enough for him to be aware of more than just how heavy he feels, he remembers. 

The smells hit him all at once, the memory of what used to be his hand, and bile rises. He pushes the need to try to throw up the emptiness in his stomach away as well as he can, but the gross, bitter taste lingers on his tongue. 

Words of a language he can’t remember float around his head. His brows furrow as he listens; in the overlap, there’s a voice that is distinctly different. He tilts, trying to see who it is, but his stomach lurches and he can’t stop the emptiness of his stomach from rushing up this time. 

He ends up hanging half-off the bed, dry heaving. 

When he’s done, a handkerchief is roughly wiped over his mouth and he’s pushed onto his back. The quick gesture, conveying thinly veiled - understandable - disgust and distrust, isn’t exactly unappreciated; but he has to wonder: who the hell carries a handkerchief anymore? 

His eye trails up the well covered arm, and squints up at the man who he suspects it belongs to. He observes as well as he can. The man, in a suit and holding the handkerchief like he’s somehow been personally wronged by it, stands over Slade; and Slade gets the feeling he’s being judged and pitied at the same time. 

Briefly, Slade thinks he looks familiar, chasing after the thought and trying to put the pieces of information together to fill in what he’s forgotten, as one of the medics approach. 

He watches as their mouths move to the tune of a language he tries the pull from his fogged mind. English, he finally recognizes, but none of the words register. This time, they are directed at him. But Slade stares blankly, wondering who this man is and why he would be in the middle of nowhere in a shit medical tent. Especially considering Slade doesn’t think that he was employed by this man, or that they were friends on any level. 

At his silence, the man’s lips turn into the deepest frown he’s ever seen, distaste bleeding through it. On some strange, knee jerk reaction, he smirks; which only makes the man narrow his eyes into a glare and frown deeper. 

Realization hits like a steamroller. His smirk drops. The man’s identity clicks. It’s Bruce Wayne. 

It’s the goddamn  _ Batman. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> YES, Slade got hurt on a job. NO, I don't know where (because I Am Lazy). YES Dick is at the manor for a reason that you probably already know and YES it will come up. NO I do not have an outline. Is it not enough to have a vague idea and very specific scene(s) that you MUST write down ?! YES I would like to continue this as soon as I am able to, and hope that it will be to anyone-who-reads-this' liking. NO I do not know when that will be or what I am doing. YES I am insecure and unsatisfied with my writing, NO I don't know how to reply to comments or compliments despite enjoying them greatly. YES I am writing this for my own pleasure, but also hope anyone who reads this will enjoy it and validate me, and thats My Business !
> 
> PLEASE comment and/or kudo, and have a good fucking day/night!


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> looking over things is great ! looking over things twenty times in a row is a little obsessive and paranoid ! doing so at 3 a.m. doesn't help anything ! im really not sure what do say yall, im pretty unhappy with the flow and im not sure about the characterization BUT fuck that, if DC can write them inconsistently so can i 
> 
> enjoy !

“Where was he?” Dick asks, his arms crossed so tightly across his chest that he doesn’t know if it’s that what’s making breathing hard or the anxiety as he looks to his soulmate across the cave. 

Looks to Slade, who is stretched out on a make shift operation table as Leslie and Harper cut off the rest of his arm. Leslie, when she finally arrived, had told them it was necessary ‘to prevent infection spreading even farther,’ as Dick tried not to throw up what little Alfred had gotten him to eat. 

But even though they’d gotten Slade, it doesn’t feel like a victory when he looks so wrong. When he looks too pale and too vulnerable; too much like he’s  _ dead _ . 

Dick can’t decide if he wants to pace to give him something to do other than worry, or if he wants to collapse at Slade’s side to be there when he finally wakes up. And maybe yell at him for being an idiot a little; after making sure he’s okay, of course. 

His eyes dart from Slade to Bruce. The latter of whom frowns at him, and shakes his head, “Nowhere you want to know about.” 

Before Dick can even give him an irritated look, Leslie calls them over, “We’re done, I’m going to hold off on waking him for a little while more, but let’s move him to a cot, okay?” 

Up close, it’s even worse. Slade is sweaty and twitchy, too drugged and probably too pained to toss and turn; his eyebrows are furrowed, and his hands are curled into fists; his skin is hot to the touch. He’s heavy when they pick him up, but it’s obvious his weight has gone down during his time in the medical tent Bruce said they’d located him in. 

He and Bruce stand by the doorway as Leslie pokes him with an IV. Bruce starts to walk away from the small medical room, but when he moves to follow Bruce puts a hand on his shoulder, “Stay with him.” 

Dick tugs Bruce into a quick hug before taking long strides to sit by Slade’s side. Harper, standing near, ready for directions, gives him a tight smile - still getting used to assisting Leslie in and out of the clinic - and at her I’m-trying-not-to-look-like-I’m-pitying-you-cause-I-know-it’s-annoying-but-I-am look, he knows he’s failed to return it; but he can’t quite find himself to care as he pulls a chair near Slade’s cot. 

Dick takes the small bowl of cold water and the rag Leslie told Alfred to get, and gently wipes Slade’s forehead and neck. Then his chest and abdomen. Then dips it in the water, rings it out, and repeats. The motions don’t stop his hands from shaking, but they let him help. Let him do something to take care of his soulmate. Because Slade is hurt, and going to be hurting for a while, but he’s here. He’s alive. And, if Dick has anything to say about it, he’ll be okay.

. . .

When Slade wakes, it’s to soft fabric against his back and a dimly lit room. Someone sits at his side, his vision too blurry to see who. There’s something covering his hand, but it’s too heavy and too hot; his fingers twitch and try to jerk away, though it pulls a silent grunt of pain, and the warmth retreats quickly. 

The last thing he remembers is being in a hell on earth of a medical tent; dry heaving and pain and the stench of death. 

“---de? Sla--?” The person at his side leans over him, not quite standing but not quite sitting. The voice fades in and out of focus. “H-y, -ou a--ke?”

He flinches away at the miniature flashlight shoved in his face. He blinks away the black spots in his vision, making out grey hair and a white medical coat. The person he assumes is a doctor sounds female, at the very least he can recognize that, but her words (“H--per, -njec- h-m agai-. --’s sti-- ou- -f it.”) are lost in his fogged mind.

A needle pinches his skin and he snarls. The person on the other side of him rubs a soothing hand over his chest; he feels a knot he hadn’t known was there ease, and slowly he comes back to himself. Then everything comes back to him, and he retches over the side of the cot he’s on. 

Dick’s voice filters through his ears, hand shifting to rub up and down his back, “Is he going to be okay, Dr. Thompkins?” 

“Harper and I have done the best I can physically, but mentally-” there’s a sigh, and he bristles; he can’t defend himself, sputtering and spitting bile as he is, “-I’m not sure. Bruce said the people who’d found him thought he was dead when they brought him to the tent, just hoping to let loved ones come to identify him, and I’m sure he probably would be without his accelerated healing, but they also said he reacted poorly to what was left of his arm. I don’t think he’ll like the state of his leg, either.” 

He stops dry-heaving, and he closes his eye for a second more than normal.  _ His leg too? _ His breath comes out shaky and he can feel his pulse in his head - is this how he was when he lost his eye? He tries to reach for the feelings and reaction, but the memory evades him. 

Dick’s worried face comes into view with a rag, and he wipes Slade’s mouth with steady, but soft, strokes. Slade can’t even push him away as Dick slowly helps him onto his back, but he does manage to catch Dick’s wrist, gritting out, “My...leg?” 

The words are hard, and his jaw works slowly around them, his tongue of lead weighing it down; but neither of those annoyances compare to the pitying look Dick shoots him. To his, small, relief, Dr. Thompkins answers first, “It’s not as bad as your arm, which was so infected we had to completely amputate it, but a chunk of it was missing and infected enough that if we hadn’t treated you within the day it would have been amputated too. With physical therapy and your healing it will probably be back to one hundred percent functionality in a month, give or take a few days. You’re very lucky, Mr. Wilson.” 

He blinks. Once. Twice. The words settled in, and he’d felt like he’d been sucker punched. 

_ Amputated. _

Slowly, his angles his head to look at his left hand. But it was gone. So was the rest of the arm except for the smallest stump, all wrapped up, right before his shoulder. 

When he looks back up, Dr. Thompkins and the blue haired girl assisting her are gone. He looks around and catches sight of Dick and Bruce, far enough that he can’t hear them, but easy enough to see that they’re talking heatedly by the look of how red Dick is getting. He looks to his right, and there’s the baby bat: Damian Wayne. 

“So, you’re Grayson’s soulmate,” he scoffs as disapproving as the Bat, and glaring like him too, “You don’t deserve him.”

Shrugging, then wincing as his... _ stump _ taps the side of his chest, Slade says, “I know.” 

Apparently, that wasn’t the answer Damian was looking for. In his displeasure, it seems like Damian is intent on having a staring contest, but Slade is tired, and feels like he’s been hit more times than his healing can keep up with, so he tilts his head to look at Dick - who looks right back. And then comes over. Apparently, Dick has decided that he looks well enough to be chastised because the first thing he out of his mouth is, “You absolute idiot. Going out to wherever you were, even if it was for a job, without telling anyone about it was moronic and stupid and dumb and-” 

Slade shifts, giving Dick a look when he pitches forward to help, and sits up slowly, “Sweet way to show your concern, Grayson. Looks like you’ve inherited more than some stupidly strict morals from the Bat.”

Dick just rolls his eyes, though the fond look falls into biting his lip hard. Slade opens his mouth to tell him to just say what he needs to as Dick blurts out, “Stay here,” he pauses a moment at the look he’s startled out of the mercenary, clarifying, “At the manor.” 

It takes a moment for Slade to process the words; but when he does he barks out a rough laugh - Damian looks horrified at the suggestion and even the Big Bad Bat shows his disgruntlement at Dick’s sudden offer. His mocking grin drops, “No.” 

“But you’re hurt, and you should have someone to help you,” Dick protests, giving him the best impression of puppy eyes he’s ever seen. And they would work...if they hadn’t been used on him far too many times; though, he would never say why sometimes - very, very,  _ very _ rarely - he still gave in.

“Let me think about it-” he pauses for less than a second, his eye meeting Dick’s as he deadpans, “-oh, you know what? Still no.” 

Somehow, Dick gets even poutier and looks at him pleadingly, “What if I came with you to one of your safe houses and help until you’re-” he pauses, lips twisting down as he tries - and fails - not to look at what’s left of Slade’s left arm. The pity in his eyes makes something ugly stir in Slade’s chest. 

“Until I’m what? Adjusted to that fact my left arm is gone and it’s going to take a while until I can walk right?” He snaps, harsher than he intends. But without being pumped full of drugs his fucking  _ stump _ hurts like a bitch and he can actually feel the literal  _ hole in his leg _ . So sue him for being a little meaner than usual. 

Damian and Bruce certainly seemed like they wanted to. Or, well, more like they wanted to break their little ‘no kill’ code.

“Master Richard,” a man in a suit and bow tie rolls a wheelchair over and nods in greeting. When Dick shuffled out of the way, he turns to Slade and raises an eyebrow, “I’ll suppose you’ll need this, Mister Wilson?” 

Snarky bastard. But Slade nods sharply - his gut telling him that this man is not to be underestimated, and he’d rather not find out if he’s right. 

When Dick moves to his side, he gives his best glare and it stops Dick in his tracks. He does, however, allow the man - Alfred, he figures out later. The butler. Loyal, sarcastic, smart. Dry wit in backhanded politeness in every word - to hold the wheelchair still as he slides into it. 

“Let me drive you, at least?” Dick pleads, and, really, Slade just wants to leave so he rolls his eye and grumbles an affirmative. 

This would be a long drive. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so ive got like One (1) scene done for the third chapter, so now i have to figure out how to lead up and finish it and that means there really isnt any way that im going to have regular updates. anyway, uh, yeah thats it.


	3. Week One

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi ! i kept rewriting this, mostly because even though i love these characters i have no idea how to write them! and honestly im still not happy, BUT - heres the kicker - not sure how to fix it. yall ever get that? like something in there is Wrong, but you have no idea what you need to do to make it better or well, you kind of do, but you keep writing it the same cause your writing is just Like That. 
> 
> idk. uh, anyway, here you go!

**Week One**

Somehow during the drive, Dick had convinced Slade to let him stay for a little while. What ‘a little while’ meant, in exact days and hours and minutes and oh-so-painful seconds, was not clarified. So, as Slade watched as Dick tossed two bags that seemed filled with enough to last almost a month, he regretted his choices immensely. 

Which brings up the newest unfortunate conversation of where in the hell he’d been. 

“I don’t know,” Slade grits out, throwing the cup of yogurt into the trash with more force than needed, “I don’t _need_ to know, and neither do you.” 

“But this could be an effect of the trauma, Slade!” Dick protests, almost stepping on his heels as he rolls to the bathroom.

"Oh, wow, didn't think about that," he mutters, wishing the wheels would go faster. Stupid electric wheelchair. Stupid Dick Grayson who just _wouldn't_ _stop nagging._

“The doctors in the medical tent B found you in said you’d been experiencing some sort of seizures or flashbacks, and now you’re telling me you can’t remember what happened, and I really think, umph-” he stops, quick enough that Dick runs right into the wheelchair handles. Of course, Dick keeps talking, “-I really think it would help if you just talked about this!” 

“Look, I have PTSD, had it since I was in the damn war. I know this, and I’ve learned to live with it. You know what else I know?” Slade rolls backwards into the bathroom, “I don’t need to talk about it,” and slams the door in Dick’s face. 

He takes a deep breath as he looks around the bathroom. It takes hours to relearn how to function. How to wash himself and how to stand. How to dry off and how to get dressed and how to be. Each time he has to stop, he has to remember what he's lost again. 

By the time he finally rolls out of the bathroom - jaw clenched, pushing on the stick because he’s one hand short to operate a regular wheelchair - he goes straight to his room. An ugly feeling sits in his chest. It weighs him down to his bed and a voice that sounds like his father’s mocks his lack of progress despite the fact barely a day had passed since he’s been awake enough to be mad about what’s happened.

Dick knocks on his door, drawing him out of his thoughts, leaving a plate of food on the floor. Later, when he passes by to go to sleep in the guest room, it’s still there. 

It can just be put in a container, saved for later, Slade thinks. Not like he could’ve kept it down anyway. 

Sunlight has faded into lights of the city and cars containing people going about their life. He shuts his window and his balcony door, pulls curtains over to block the artificial brightness out. And he tosses and turns before deciding to read. Not like he could’ve slept anyway.

. . .

A new day comes and plays out just the same. A continuous failure of trying to encourage positivity by Dick, attempts to get Slade to talk about his traumas. Then they try physical therapy before Slade gets so sick of it he locks himself away in his room.

There's knock on the door for each meal Slade doesn’t eat, but today the knocking doesn’t stop by the time dinner’s passed. Dick’s getting frustrated, feeling like Alfred as he says, “One thing. Eat one thing off the plate, Slade...please.” 

Slade waits, but there is no clatter of a plate on the floor and no sigh and no feet shuffling away. He grumbles as he slips into his wheelchair and rolls over to the door. He takes the plate and the fork, and Dick gives him an annoying hopeful look. He narrows his eyes and smiles back unpleasantly. Dick's lucky Slade only has one hand, and it's too busy holding the plate to shut the door on his face. 

His mouth turns into a thin line as Dick sits on the floor. Those terribly blue eyes looking up at him like always - like before he had to use a wheelchair. As if that would make him feel better.

Dick’s eyebrows furrow as he puts his utensils down. The steak settles heavy in his stomach and that ugly feeling in his chest twists his lips into a sneer - he pushes the plate and the fork and the knife away. It clatters on the floor, food landing in Dick’s lap and splattering on his shirt. 

The door is slammed, and Dick is left in his wake. 

“Slade, I know this is hard and you’ve never been good at emotions, but please-” there’s a thump on the other side of the door, not hard to guess that it’s Dick resting his head on it, “-let me help. Or at least come out...please?” 

“ _No_ ,” he hisses out, grip tight on the armrest of the - _his_ \- wheelchair. His breath comes out shaky, and he wishes Dick would just leave him alone. He wishes that he’d died in the explosion that took his hand. 

Death would be better than how pathetic he feels. The sharp stinging in his arm and leg, the ringing in his ears that gets louder when he tries to sleep. Waking up and, for just a second, everything is okay but then he _remembers_. He remembers fire and smoke and pain. 

He remembers that his arm is gone and he’s never going to be as good as he _was_.

Losing an eye was easier. At least he could use both hands. Could run toward the danger, steady on his feet. Now he is - was - better with one eye. But with one arm? Unlikely he’ll be back in the field better than before - or at all. At least _Dick_ and the rest of the heroes were probably happy about that. Not like there was much else for Dick to be happy about, here with him and his tantrums. 

“I’m not going to let you push me away,” Dick whispers back. The doorknob jiggles. “Let me in. I want to help you, and I know you want help, even if you won’t admit it. Why else would you agree to me being here? Right? So-” 

“You’re wrong. Go away.” 

“Am I really?” Moments tick by in silence, Slade glares at the door. Dick asks, “Back to the silent treatment? Come on, don’t lock me out-” Dick’s voice breaks, Slade reaches for the door. There’s a soft sigh, “-Forget it. I’ll let you sleep...goodnight, Slade.” 

He hears a door close and running water. No more voice from the other side of the door. No pleads to talk. Just silence. 

Alone again. Just like he’d asked for. 

. . .

Dick lays on his bed, half asleep and half too wound up to sleep. 

Half mad and worried, but mostly just tired. His offers of help being shut down, any feelings he might have shoved away. He’d always found it easier to care for someone else rather than himself. But Slade was definitely trying to change his mind about that - and he gets to deal with Bruce and Damian.

Guilt crawls up his throat at the thought. Slade’s _hurt_ , he's just lashing out. He can understand that - he just needs to be patient.

Any more less-than-coherent thoughts are washed away. He’s drawn from the limbo between wakefulness and sleep, heavy thoughts rolling through his head, by the thud of someone falling. He sits up to a curse and heavy footsteps. He's out of bed by the time he hears the sound of someone worshiping a cold, porcelain god.

He makes a quick detour to grab a cup of water before heading back down the hallway. Pausing at the doorway, he feels dizzy with worry at the sight of Slade on the floor - red seeping through the wrapping on his leg and head stuck in the toilet. Slade doesn’t even glance his way - but he stores it away for later.

Right now, he’s going to be there for Slade.

Neither of them say anything as he drops to his knees and rubs a hand up and down Slade’s back. They don’t say anything as Slade heaves over the toilet, and Dick presses his lips to Slade’s shoulder. They don’t say anything as Slade spits in it once more before leaning back into Dick, who wraps his arms around Slade in an almost-hug. They sit there, silent, until the stench gets to be too much, and then a few minutes more.

Slade moves first, shutting the toilet and flushing it. He glances at the cup of water, and Dick hands it to him. He leans on the sink counter and gargles with it one-two-three times before actually drinking any. Still, he grimaces when he swallows, and reaches for his toothbrush and toothpaste. 

He stops short, looking at only one arm reaching for the things - only one hand curling around them. Taking a deep breath, he grits his teeth and adjusts his hands - _hand -_ to roll off the cap and spread the paste onto the brush.

When Slade is finished, he looks down at Dick - still on the floor, looking much too concerned and tired over an man like him. He hates that look, so of course he has to ask, “Why are you here?” 

“Because you need me to be here, so here I’ll stay,” Dick tells him, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

“Why do you stay?” Slade pushes, sinking to the floor. 

Dick asks, “Why wouldn’t I be?” like he’s trying to say, _“Because you’re important to me.”_

Everything is frustratingly genuine from the words to the slight curve up of lips, a little sad and a little fond to the soft look in stupidly blue eyes. Slade can’t stand it. So he turns to the cabinet behind him and grabs gauze and wrap. He rolls the old strip away from his leg and swallows back more bile. 

It's an ugly thing, nowhere near what his arm had looked like or what it had been in the tent, but still so horrible. It strains against the neat stitches, still an irritated red. Dick stays still, watching and waiting, biting the inside of his cheek so he won’t offend Slade with the offer of help. But Slade looks up and raises an eyebrow. 

Dick's smile is smaller than usual, but sweeter than the last. It makes something thump in Slade's chest. Thankfully, instead of saying something, he simply gets to work. 

As he cleans and re-wraps the wound, Slade leans against the cabinet doors. His eyes drifts shut to warm fingers skimming against his skin and the sound of wrapping. They open to a gentle touch on his shoulder - probably perfected from years of encouraging a new generation of heroes, and dealing with angsty younger siblings - and he looks up to a tooth achingly sweet smile. It makes it worse to know how sincere it is.

Dick brushes his lips against Slade’s forehead, “I’m going back to bed. Goodnight.” 

He grunts dismissively, left to stew in his lack of thoughts and conflicting feelings. The wall doesn’t flinch under his confused glare that carries more heat than the usual ice cold look. No clock ticks the time by, no thought in the back of his head to count. 

Slowly, he ghosts his fingers around his forehead. He feels like a schoolgirl with a crush, squashing whatever longing nestles in his heart. But there’s a thought that comes to mind, after he’s slid into his wheelchair and then under his covers. He thinks it’s the truest thought he’s ever had. 

_This kid is going to be the death of him._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hope you enjoyed ! see you next time, hopefully sooner rather than later !


	4. Week Two: Part One

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wow okay, so,,,sorry lmao, it's been a hot minute. uh, as always sorry for any inconsistencies or bad grammar or spelling and such, im illiterate and tired, lol. but if anyone if still reading this,,,here you go! 
> 
> enjoy !

**Week Two: Part One**

“Shut the _actual_ fuck up, Slade,” Dick snorts, a ridiculous sound that pulls at Slade’s lips - he’s not really sure which way they want to turn. Not that it matters, as he keeps his face as uninterested as possible. It’s a bit difficult as Dick, living up to his name, asks, “You really don’t know how to play chess?” 

“Cards are easier to lug around than chessboards. And when I settled down with Adeline, I wasn’t exactly thinking about learning _chess_ ,” he scoffs, frowning at the little pieces neatly ordered on the checkered board. Chessboards, checkerboards; same pattern, different games. 

“Has no employer ever sat in their stupid seat with a chessboard on whatever table they’re behind and asked you to play?” Dick needles, eyes wide with genuine curiosity. For a moment, Slade almost thinks Dick is mocking him and being antagonistic on purpose - then he remembers Dick is from Gotham and it’s probably an actual experience he’s had. Maybe more than once, considering...it’s Gotham.

Apparently though, he’s taken too long to response, as Dick was already talking again. He sighs heavily as Dick chatters on. A mildly offended frown twitches at Dick’s lips, “If you let me teach you how to play chess, I’ll let you choose what we have for dinner.” 

“Right, right, I choose and you order from whatever take-out place is closest,” Slade drawls, picking up a pawn and rolling it between his thumb and forefinger, “You can’t cook anything other than breakfast foods, which is giving you more range than you actually have. Though, I’ll admit your salmaia isn’t horrible either.” 

“Wow, I think that’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me,” Dick rolls his eyes. “Really, though, do you have anything better to do? I mean-” he gestures to the board, “-no harm in learning a new skill. I think you’ll do well at chess.” 

“Flattery will get you nowhere, _Dickie_ ,” Slade says, but puts the pawn back and leans into his wheelchair. He meets Dick’s raised eyebrow with a tilt of his head. Another eyeroll, and Slade gives him an unpleasant smile, “Your eyes are rolling so hard I’m surprised they haven’t rolled right out of your head.” 

Dick scowls right back, “That what happened to yours?” 

Slade’s upper lips curls into a sneer, “Actually, Addie shot it out after Joey got his throat slit.” 

“Oh.”

“Yeah. Oh.” 

The uncomfortable, apologetic slant of Dick’s mouth is like being doused with cold water - irritating and displeasing. Obviously, he just has to start with a soft tone, as if talking to a spooked animal, “Slade-” 

“Forget it, Grayson. Get or make whatever you want for dinner,” Slade grunts, biting back a frustrated growl when his wheelchair gets caught on the table. A few chess pieces fall over. The look he gives Dick makes him focus on resetting the board instead of offering unwanted, and _unneeded_ , help.

As he rolls down the hall to his room, his mouth turns down into a deep scowl at Dick’s muttered parting words. 

“One step forward, two steps back.”

. . .

They’re back in position the next day. 

It’s been frustratingly dull and routine, Slade will admit. As if setting up for a play, every night mostly the same. 

There wasn’t much surprise that Dick would suggest something to interrupt their day after they’d laid all the groundwork of deciding who does what and on which day. Something to do other than eating, physical therapy, eating, ignoring Dick’s attempts to talk or do an activity, TV or reading, eating, then vigilante work for Dick and (trying to) sleep for Slade. Sometimes a fight would be thrown in, and a few steps would be forgone, but even that wasn’t surprising when it happened.

And considering Dick lost most other battles with the board and card games, Slade expected that the ‘chess situation’ would be dropped. Instead, there’s an addition to the set, and ‘scene one’ now looks like this: between them sits the dining table with a plate of eggs, hashbrowns, and sausages at each of their elbows. It’s a stupidly domestic and usual picture. 

Then there’s the newspaper beside Slade’s plate, while Dick checks up on his family on his phone. Nothing special, nothing out of the ordinary there. However, the chessboard off to the side and still sitting where is was yesterday on the table _is_ unordinary - and unwelcome. 

Slade frowns at it as he shifts from his wheelchair to the regular, wooden one. It’s disrupting his boring, normal breakfast. 

“You going to move that thing?” 

“Eat half your plate-” Dick’s words flow without hesitation, simply smiling his charmingly fake ‘Dickie G’ smile in the face of Slade turning a steely glare on him, “-or at least half your eggs, and a sausage.”

“Don’t tell me what to do,” Slade snips, but stabs into his eggs. A week and a day, and only three nights had he been able to keep everything down. Fine by him - in his opinion, for the most part, Dick’s cooking tasted the same coming up as it did going down anyway. 

Thankfully, it’s blissfully quiet for a few minutes. Slade’s stomach only slightly churns, and the pins and needles in his leg are like TV static in the background. The phantom weight of a missing arm makes it feel like it’s not gone at all - but he can barely stop himself from gritting his teeth if (when) he tries to reach for something. All in all: it’s a better day than most. Of course, that means there needs to be something to balance it out. 

Obviously, that balance comes in the form of Dick asking, “Have you told Rose and Joey?” 

The food turns bitter on his tongue, and Slade resists spitting it out. He forces himself to swallow. Slowly, he places his fork back on his plate, then picks up his cup to take a sip of water - overly aware of Dick’s gaze - and says, “No.” 

“Mm, well...they’re going to find out,” Dicks tells him, eyes dropping to his own plate. “They both agreed to come over for dinner. Tonight.” 

There’s a sharp stab of annoyance that he knows is going to turn into a migraine as he snaps out, “No.”

Dick’s eyes go wide and confused, “Wha-?” 

“ _Un_ invite them,” Slade huffs, grip on his glass tightening and eye narrowing.

Mouth slightly ajar, Dick starts, “Maybe _they_ wanted to-” he huffs at the look Slade shoots at him, and shakes his head, “I can’t just uninvite them because you’re afraid-”

“I’m not afraid. You had no right to invite them to _my_ safehouse,” Slade hisses, a spiderweb of cracks appearing in his glass, “The less people who know that I’m currently wounded and susceptible to attack-”

“Your _children_ aren’t going to hit you while you’re down-" 

"-Obviously you don't know them that well-"

Without missing a beat, Dick continues, "-and they won’t sell you out to your enemies or whatever. They’re coming for dinner with their dad-” Dick points to Slade as he speaks, then to himself, “-and their friend. I am sorry, because this is your safehouse, but I’m not sorry I invited them. I’m staying here to help and-”

Slade scoffs loudly, gesturing between them with his hand, “ _Help?_ You call this-”

“Ugh! Would you stop-” 

“-help? Why don’t you take your help-” 

“-interrupting? If you’d just listen-!”

“-bottle it up, right next to your _daddy issues_ , and-”

“Fuck you!” There’s an angry flush spread over Dick’s cheeks and to the tips of his ears, his breathing even in a way that Slade knows means that he’s trying to control it. 

Slade gnashes his teeth in a mock grin, “Poor baby, can’t take people pointing out your family problems? Need to dress up and play hero? Too bad, considering you’re just like your daddy. Thinking you’re dealing justice to criminals because they’ll go to jail for a week or be eating through a tube the rest of their life?”

“Would you shut up!” Dick hisses, his lips turn into a pure Gothamite sneer and his eyes go stormy as he slams his hands on that table and stands slightly, “Trying to talk about my family problems like you’re any better is just annoying, and dressing up? Please, you can’t talk, running around in some stupid halloween colors and killing people ‘just cause’. What are you even doing with your life, Slade? There were plenty of things to do instead of killing, but no - you _wanted_ to. You had a life with Grant and Joey and Adeline! You could’ve adjusted to being normal, and _happy_ , and left _murdering people_ behind!” 

“What kind of wishy-washy bullshit are you on? Playing at some kind of high-ground speech like the Big Blue Boyscout-” supporting himself on the table, Slade grips Dick’s jaw with his own sneer, “-like a real hero. Too bad. You’re just Bats 2.0, and everyone knows it. Robin, Nightwing? It’s not going to last. Even if you did get lucky with him coming back the last time, whose to say what’ll happen next time? Not like you could leave the spot empty.” 

Slade can feel the tremor run through Dick’s jaw. His eyes close briefly, and Slade almost feels something like regret. A hand - slimmer, but just as calloused - lands on his wrist, it’s gentle compared to the look in Dick’s eyes. The message is received, and Slade lets his hand fall. He tells himself it’s because it’s just not worth the fight.

They both sit again. Dick pushes his lukewarm food around, and Slade frowns at his water wishing it was something stronger. Eye flicking up, Slade can see Dick’s jaw working - trying to find words to fill the space, or mend the frayed tightrope that links them. And what a tightrope it must be, surviving such storms yet still bridging the ever changing gap between them.

Biting his tongue to hold back a sigh, Slade sips at his water. He has never been much poetic or philosophical thoughts, but with the storm swirling in his head of _anger-regret-defensiveness-anger_ , there is one thought that breaks through. A wonder why the first Boy Wonder’s soul or whatever the hell it is would be connected to his. What thing in the universe had decided that they were best matched for each other.

“I’m sorry.” The words shatter any thoughts of soulmates and matches and the universe. With his eye trained on Dick, he waits. 

Dick’s eyes are still staring, unfocused, on his plate, fork in hand now unmoving. Still, his voice doesn’t waver, no room for argument - not that Slade would argue with an apology he deserved - as he continues, “I shouldn’t have invited them, especially without telling you beforehand just because I knew you would say no. That was a total asshole move, I’m in the wrong here, and I’m sorry.” 

In his head, Slade knows what he should say. He knows he took it too far, even if Dick was in the wrong; he knows and yet his mouth wont open. Silently, his jaw clenches - it’s going the wrong way. It’s quiet again. And not for the first time, nor the last, he wishes whatever connected his thoughts to his lips wouldn’t fritz and fizzle when it came to apologies. 

So, instead, what comes out is a low, “Yeah,” sounding more like a grunt than a word. He makes the mistake of stealing a glance - that turns into a look - up at Dick. Dick, who has a stupid, hesitantly relieved expression like he heard all those things Slade couldn’t force out and hoping he read in between the lines right.

Dick, who has a stupid face and a stupid personality, and Slade doesn’t care if that’s childish to think - Dick is stupid, therefore everything about him is stupid. From his fluffy hair to his confusing morals to his full lips. But his eyes are the stupidest thing about him. Horrible... _colored orbs of sight_ that convey _no_ emotion directed right at Slade and - fuck. 

Releasing his cup, Slade slouches in his chair. Slade’s sigh is heavy and drawn out, gritting his teeth as he says, “They can come over.”

It’s almost amusing enough to forget about how much Dick is a dick as Slade watches him bounce between pleasantly surprised and worriedly confused. Dick twirls his fork in his grip as he asks, “Are you sure? I mean, I’m not complaining, but if it’ll make you uncomfortable-” 

“Do I ever say things I don’t mean, Grayson?” Slade drawls, hiding a smirk in his glass of water when Dick lets out an unflattering snort. “I said they can come, not that I’ll be civil. Whatever family bonding _thing_ you hope might happen probably will end up in a fight - usually physical. I’m not so sure my children would hold back just because I’m a bit indisposed right now.” 

With a shake of his head, Dick says, “They’re like you, you know. They care a lot, they just don’t know how to show it, or admit it.” 

“Yeah? What makes you so sure about that?” Slade raises an eyebrow, biting back the sneer that threatens to appear and leaning into the spark of interest. He’d like to think a fight within less than an hour of another was a bit much, even for him.

Dick hums, catching Slade’s attention again, leaning back and popping a forkful of what has to be cold, or at least lukewarm - _disgusting_ , Slade thinks - hashbrowns into his mouth, “Because-” a shrug, a bittersweet smile, “-my family’s the same way.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> please leave a comment to feed to author, it will give me much needed guilt to make me get working on the next chapter. will it make me go faster? ah,,,probably not, but they're appreciated and i'll try to get the chapter out,,,before the end times lmao
> 
> have a nice day :)


	5. Sorry :/

uh, yeah, sorry. :(( i just really fell out of this fandom, and i didn't want to leave without an explanation because i always feel very dismayed when authors do that, so....yeah. honestly, i had a start (slade gets hurt, dick takes care of him) and end point (they get together, still a little rocky and unsure, but working on it) and a few scenes in between. uh, here's a few snippets i wrote out before i lost all inspiration for this:

Slade glares at Dick from his position in the couch. He would be crossing his arms, but, well- he grimaces. The buzzing in his stump make his stomach churn with the few pieces of reheated egg he had managed to eat, but the silent assumption he knows Dick made - the one where, if he got up, he would go to his room and lock the door - makes him stick to his seat.

Of course, the assumption isn’t wrong, but the disappointed face Dick makes when he’s right about something ‘bad’ is annoying. It’s only a little more annoying than the bouncing of Dick’s leg as they wait. The nervous energy makes him want to throw something. Unfortunately, tonight he’s decided that, unless someone else starts it, he’s not going to resort to physical violence...well, he’s decided that he’ll try.

...

“I can’t read your mind, Slade! I don’t always know what you’re trying to say when you don’t say anything!”

...

"I'd be better off dead. Joey and Rose hate me, the only person who tolerates me is you and that's because we're-" he sneers, spitting the word like the curse he thinks it is, "- _soulmates_."

But Dick won’t give up, lips thinning, “You know as well as I do that’s not true.”

“Maybe I don’t.”

“Don’t be contrary.”

Slade grits out, “Then don’t say shit like that.”

“What? The truth?” Dick huffs back, extending an accusing finger. “Because the truth is, soulmates or not, I care for you. That scare you? Big bad Deathstroke the Terminator, scared of being cared for? Of being wanted, being lov-”

“Shut up,” Slade snaps, slapping the hand away.

Dick bares his teeth, wondering why the world had decided that a jackass who wouldn’t accept his love was his ‘best match’, and snaps back, “Don’t push me away just because you can’t stop me from loving you, and you’re too afraid to love me back!”

“You were a child!” Slade protests, and feels rightly justified about it.

Dick wants to shatter that resolve. He wants to mention Terra, how Slade used her when she was a child; and how Slade didn’t hold back on traumatizing him - or his friends - even though they were children. He wants, but he doesn’t because he knows Slade is waiting for him to say it. Knows Slade wants him to say things that hurt that he can’t take back. So instead he shouts, “And you’re acting like one!”

“I’m the one acting like a child?” Slade scoffs, “You’re throwing a fucking tantrum because I told you that you’re being stupid and too damn clingy!”

Dick shoves him, frustrated tears gathering in his eyes as his hands tangle in Slade’s shirt, “Well maybe I’m clingy because you keep pushing me away, and I’m afraid if I let go you’ll never come back!”

At the incredulous look, Dick blushes; then flushes even more at the way Slade says, “Grayson,” and feels like he’s being talked down to. As if Slade still sees him as the child who could never catch up to him, even when he tried - tries - so damn hard over and over. His teammates thought he was obsessed because of Slade’s mind games, but maybe he just wanted to be noticed by his _soulmate_ \- the person he’d dreamed of his whole life, and was rejected by every time he tried to get close.

...

and then there was nothing. brain go brr. sorry :/ if anyone wants this go ahead and steal whatever you want, not that there's really much to steal, plus ideas are free real estate, super sure this idea has been done before (maybe, idk, i didnt go into a deep dive to make sure no one else did a slade gets hurt nd dickie nurses him back to health fic) um, yeah. that's all. thanks for reading to anyone out there, uh...have a nice life.


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